


Coffee and Cigarettes

by ThreeCirclesofVaryingSizes



Category: Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, Late Night Host RPF, Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Author is Trying to Work Through Some Stuff, Emphasis on Unresolved, Flirting, Mentor/Protégé, No Romance, One Shot, Other, POV First Person, Reader-Insert, Swearing, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, don't mind me, gender neutral narrator, no names, unless...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24300922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeCirclesofVaryingSizes/pseuds/ThreeCirclesofVaryingSizes
Summary: A conversation in a diner between an up-and-coming writer and their mentor.EDIT: Added specific tags to clarify the subject/fandom. Idk I wasn't willing to admit who I was writing about at first bc there's so little content to begin with, but maybe there's someone else out there disappointed in the lack of Craig Ferguson fics... who knows?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	Coffee and Cigarettes

The smell of coffee and cigarettes always reminded me of Las Vegas early in the morning. I don't partake in the former usually, nor the latter, ever, but somehow, the smell of both of them take me back to late nights turning into early mornings in a big city.

\---

He poured several packets of sugar into the mug the waitress just set down. I stared.

“My wife is trying to get me to switch to that Splenda shite, but this is the only fun I get to have anymore.” The slight musical rhythm and regional slang betrayed his otherwise Americanized accent. I’d already noticed it tended to slip the more emotional he got.

I shrugged and sipped my soda as the waitress took our order. Save for one or two other midnight-snackers , we had the diner to ourselves.

“So tell me about this story you’re writing.”

I shook my head. “It’s just something for me to do, really. I...uhh...don’t really like talking about it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it’s kinda personal. I mean not explicitly, but you know...”

He “mmm”-ed in agreement as he took a swig of his coffee. We sat in silence for a second until I broke it. “And I don’t want to, like, I don’t know? Jinx anything?”

“Oh?”

“Well, I do actually really like it, and I think if I put in enough work into it, it might be something, I don’t know, publishable?”

“Probably already is, given the shit that’s being written these days,” he said as he took another sip of coffee.

I ignored this. “I just don’t want to get too excited about it right now. I just want to be able to work on it even when it's not exciting.”

“That’s pretty smart, especially for your age. Though, I suppose you’re at the age where you’re supposed to be making terrible shit, so don’t feel pressured to make it perfect.”

“But I want to. It is a personal story, and I want to tell it right. I just…” I sighed. “I just don’t really like sharing things I make unless it’s done. Especially if I really care about it.”

He gave a knowing smirk. “Ah, you’ve got to let yourself be vulnerable, you know.”

I liked the way he said “vulnerable”, like he was getting rid of unnecessary syllables. But the concept of vulnerability immediately put me on the defense.

“You can take my cool and emotionally distant facade from my cold dead hands, pal.” I  
deadpanned, until quickly cracking a smile when he chuckled.

I stirred the ice in my soda with the straw. “No, I’m just not a ‘writer’, though. This is all sort of... new territory for me.”

“Bullshit.” I looked up, startled. “Do ya write? Then you’re a writer. Pretty much anyone with a concept of language and grammar can do it, and even then a lot of people without either do pretty well for themselves.”

“Okay, here’s the thing,” I straightened out the silverware in front of me as I laid out my defense. “I don’t like singular labels. I am a person who writes, not a writer.” He looked amused at my pretentiousness. I continued. “No, listen, it’s a matter of clarity, I swear. One, I don’t get paid to do it, so it’s not a job title, and two, I spend more time not writing than writing so I don’t like being defined by that alone.”

“Ohhh,” he said mockingly.

“Listen, asshole,” I couldn’t help but grin. His accent was becoming more prominent. “I’m still working out who I am, so sue me for preferring to be a per-sun, who just happens to write sometimes,” I said emphatically.

The waitress set down our food, and conversation stopped while we ate.

After a while, he finally broke the silence. “Alright, let’s forget about who you are. Who is it that you want to be?”

I scrunched my nose. “That’s really...that’s really just a more clear way to phrase my original question. I don’t know.”

“What do you want...in life?” he gesticulated with a french fry in his hand.

“Yeah, when I ask myself that, the only thing I can come up with is ‘happiness’, which is what everyone wants.”

“So, what makes you happy?” He pointed another fry at me. “Like right now, what do you like in your life?”

“I like comedy, I guess. But I don’t like how angry it is these days. Like, I get that comedy is an important way to process shit that’s happening...but I don’t know. I just like making people happy. I like providing escapism.”

“Yeah, I get that,” He nodded his head. "And quite frankly, there’s more than enough people out there giving their opinions on things. You are under no obligation to give yours.”

“I know, it’s just a shame, cos mine is the only one that’s right.”

“You and me both,” he winked at me as he lifted his mug again.

I checked the time. It was getting close to 1 AM, yet, there were more diners than when we first came in. Gotta love the city.

We chit-chatted while we finished our food, riffing on the strange characters that walked in and out of the restaurant.

“Oh he’s a drug dealer for sure, I think I went to school with him back in the day.”

“Well, that’s clearly his mother with him, unless she's trying to buy?”

“Hmm, both. How about that group over there? Met online, now negotiating a heist.”

“Nah, it’s a couple looking for a third, but she’s way more into the idea than he is.”

“Okay, that bloke over there. Do ya think that’s his daughter or his mistress?”

“You know...I actually think they’re asking the same exact thing about us.” I had caught him off guard just in time for him to sputter into his coffee and stare at me. Not wanting to draw out the awkwardness any further than needed, I just shrugged and laughed. “That’s how it is in this town, though. And honestly, I could do much worse.”

The waitress finally came by to clear our plates. “Will that be one check, or two?”

He looked at me. Logically, he had more money than me, and was the one to suggest leaving the party for real food, and I really don’t like saying no to a free meal. But it was too loaded a gesture, even if it was a genuinely friendly one.

“Two,” I answered, turning to him. "But you can pick up the tip." He looked almost relieved. 

She came back a few minutes later with the receipts and a to-go coffee. “You can pay these up front at the counter.” As she was about to walk away, she stopped. “Hey, have I seen you on TV somewhere?”

My companion straightened up. “Perhaps. I’ve done some work across the pond, as you say.” His accent became posh in a superficial, but not quite phony way.

I couldn’t resist. “Yeah, it’s mainly bit parts on this sci-fi show. Time-travel crap. You know it?”

“Ohh, I don’t but I think my daughter does! That must be it!” Satisfied the waitress walked away, and we broke down laughing.

With our meals paid for, we walked out into the cool, misting air, not quite wanting to go to our separate ways yet.

Finally, he spoke. “Alright, listen. You’re very clever and funnier than you give yourself credit for. Now, I know you’re not confident in your writing, but you've got to keep at it. No matter what you end up writing. Books, screenplays, really depressing poetry. You have to keep practicing it until it doesn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out, and it's always going to make you want to gouge your eyes out. I can read half the shit I wrote as a kid, but I am where I am now aren’t I? Fuck, I can’t read half the shit I write now, but there ya go…”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Yeah, well, some people find it funny. Didn’t you? And don’t bullshit me, you lost that privilege with your ‘oh I’m such a big fan, I’d love to pick your brain sometime.’”

“I do not sound like that.”

“Either way, you’ve got to learn to trust your work enough to share it with other people. That’s how you get better.”

“I know but…”

He grabbed my shoulder and spun me to face him. “How can anyone see how brilliant you are if you don’t give yourself that chance?” He looked me square in the eye, no sign of sarcasm to be seen on his face.

I couldn’t take it. “Easy,” I joked, “I just constantly tell people I am, and when they ask for proof, I say they couldn’t possibly get me.”

He smiled and chuckled. Backing away ever so slightly, he looked at the parking lot. “Do you.. need a ride?”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll get a Lyft,” I said as I pulled out my phone.

We made more small talk as I waited for my ride. When it finally pulled up the driveway, I turned to him.

“Well-” we both started and laughed.

He stuck out his hand somewhat forcefully. “If you’ll be needing any more career or life advice,” he said, “I’ll probably be around somewhere. Though I can’t guarantee good life advice. Or good career advice.”

“Well, I’ll get a hold of you if I need you.” I meant to shake his hand, but I just grabbed it, neither of us wanting to make the first move. 

As the Lyft’s headlights glided over us, he finally gave my hand a squeeze. “Good luck.” We let go, our fingers brushing as we walked our separate ways.

From the back window of the Lyft, I watched him cross the parking lot to his car, and set his to-go cup on the hood. He leaned up against his car, and pulled out a lighter. I left him there, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a Reader Insert/RPF fic but I kinda like how it reads without naming names. (10 points to anyone who guesses who the subject is supposed to be).  
> If there is any interest, I have written a prologue of sorts to this, when they meet, but I want this to stand on its own for now. If and when that prologue is posted, I'll probably end up tagging the proper fandom and people.  
> EDIT: I changed the tags to reflect that this is, in fact, about Craig Ferguson. lmk what you think!


End file.
